Legends are Human
by Skykhanhunter
Summary: A series of oneshots focusing on the life of the Champion of Cyrodil at various points. Some will be AU others from the game. Male PC.Latest, Haskill thinks about how mad is the new Madgod
1. Master and Apprentice

My first Oblivion fic. May be a bit AU as I haven't finished the game yet. Having said that, I got it into my head to do this. The first in a slow series of oneshots regarding the life of the Chamion of Cyrodil. He's not named in this chapter, but he will be in future ones.

* * *

Agronak gro Malag remembered the boy. He remembered the first time the kid had come to the arena and had taken up the battle raiment for his first few fights. The young imperial had looked slightly more than nervous before his first fight. Even so, his grip on the broadsword he carried was a firm one. In seeking distraction from his first bog fight he had struck up a conversation with the orc champion. For some unknown reason Agronak had been drawn to the young man's charisma. He had an honesty about himself that was not patronising and he had listened to the tale Agronak had had to tell. Perhaps he had been mistaken at the time, but the man had seemed to be interested, then he had asked if he could help. After several fights the boy had vanished and Agronak remembered the feeling of regret at his duplicity.

It had been his surprise when the boy had returned, stronger, more mature, with a darkness around his eyes that was the remnants of his trials. He hadn't noticed at the time, but Agronak realised that the boy carried a touch of genuine regret. Even when the elated Grey Prince had taught him some of the best fighting moves in the arena the boy had still had the look of sadness in his eye. Then the awful truth and Agronak's despair, the boy disappearing into the arena and coming back, time and time again victorious. Then he had vanished. Disappearing completely. Agronak had been sorry to see him go. Despite the pain he had been brought by the young man, he was still honourable enough to carry out the mission.

Back he had come, time and again to fight maybe one or two fights at a time, but he never talked to Agronak again. Out he'd go and he wouldn't been heard of until he came back. The reports had started to return to the city by that stage, to the point where even a reclusive disgraced Arena fighter could hear of them. The Hero of Kvatch! People sang his praises everywhere they went, taking courage from his deeds in these dark times. Then had come the cheers that were for the Divine Crusader and the Knights of the Nine. Ancient heroes had come to life and were resisting the daedra.

All of that changed when the war fully broke upon them. Agronak had fought the daedra as all had, their skills as warriors being more valuable than that of an Imperial Legion soldier. It had been one week of hellish battles, overrun with nightmare the type of which had never been seen before. But the news, the news of victory, of the Emperor having been found safe and well and of the hero of Kvatch having been at his side for the entire battle, save his duel with Dagon. Now word of the mysterious hero was starting to spread. An imperial, a member of the Blades, not only that but a Knight of the Nine, the Divine Crusader himself! But when asked about his description, none knew. But the Grey Prince wasn't stupid.

The Emperor had returned. Martin Septim led the victory parade through the streets of the Imperial city, always stopping and giving thanks to the Nine. But as Agronak watched from his place on the wall he noted something else. The dark head of a young man in blade armour, but bareheaded, riding alongside the Emperor. And it was then he knew. Days later, after some semblance of order had come to the city, Agronak was training in the arena Bloodworks.

"Agronak, my friend."

The voice was the same, but it wasn't the same youth who stood before him. Clad in armour, a long Akaviri katana over his shoulder and another at his waist. He had cast aside the Blade armour in favour of the Kvatch cuirass and the Divine Crusader helmet he carried under an arm. Agronak straightened and looked the man in the eye.

"Yes?"

The Champion of Cyrodil stretched out a hand which the Grand Champion shook. "Thanks for everything you taught me."

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Read and review. Let e know what you think and if you have any suggestions, I will include them if I can in future chapters


	2. Dark Knight Rising

I know this sounds foolish, but I created my own class at the beginning of the game, called it Dark Knight. I was on a Batman high okay! Anyway it focuses more on offensive skils and magic so it's more of a Knight/Warrior mix. Still haven't named him yet but I have yet to put in a conversation. Enjoy!

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Atop a hill stood a horse. It was a tall horse, strong and well built for travelling and for carrying a great burden. Now it was still, still as the person sitting on its back was still. He was of medium height, strongly built and clad in steel armour. Bareheaded, with his helmet under his arm he kept a firm gaze on the scene before him. It was a group of people running to and fro, desperately trying to keep the hordes of daedra away. There wasn't even that many, but the open Oblivion gate was going to present a problem. As long as it was there, they would forever be in danger. Where it was, right outside Skingrad, was a liability for a city that lived via commerce. The Hero of Kvatch sighed to himself. Kvatch had been easy compared to all the trials and tribulations he faced these days.

Oblivion gates were everywhere, constantly shifting and constantly sending out more daedra. People like the Mythic Dawn were even worse. Part of him was dreading the time when he would have to infiltrate that awful group and go undercover. Hatred coursed through him at the memory of Uriel Septim's death and the fate of Martin Septim. The former Emperor had shown a faith in him that he felt he did not deserve, the new Emperor was one of the few people he dared call friend. He would die before these maggots got their chance to rip them down. Uriel Septim was dead, killed by cultists who sought the power of the daedra above all else. Fools! He thought to himself, as if the Daedric Lords will let them live after they've taken Tamriel.

But the business in hand beckoned once again as screams returned to his ears. A caravan had come across the scene and the daedra had turned their attention to them. Silently he lifted his helmet and replaced it on his head. Time to head back into battle.

The people heard the sound of galloping hooves and turned. Out of the smoke, mounted on a horse, wielding a sword of the finest steel, came a knight. Not just any knight, the Dark Knight.

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A short one I know, but I hope you think it's good. R&R please


	3. Fall of a Cult

Spoliers for the main quest. I count this battle amongst my favorites ever. Not only because it was a serious challenge that I eventually overcame, but that it actually happened like this.

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Ruma was not surprised her father motioned for herself and Raven to strike the moment he finished speaking. Immediately she leaped forward, her staff readied in front of her, her mind poised to unleash the spell she had building. With a gesture she would have this interloper, this crass fool, this lapdog of the Septims, he who dared to come here, to the heart of her father's paradise, this mortal. To the point where he had deceived one of their own followers into following him. Eldamil would have been considered one of her most trusted followers before his untimely death. And now he had sided with this human trash.

She remembered it as if it were yesterday. Of course from the point of view of eternity it was yesterday. Here was only the ever changing now, the present and the continuous. The first time she had met this man, this so called champion, Hero of Kvatch, had been when he had arrived at their shrine in the Lake Arrius Caverns. He had been another faceless minion in a crowd of them, a willing devotee, eager to learn and eager to prove himself to them and their master. Lord Dagon had demanded blood, and the sacrifice was to be in accordance. He had been given the knife and told to end the life of the Argonian in front of the statue. When he had heard what was expected of him he had stopped for a brief moment and she had seen a slight tremor of weakness in his eyes. It was comforting, in a sense to see such a naïve youngster there who could be moulded into a weapon of Lord Dagon. Taking the blade from her hand he had stepped forward to look at the prisoner. For a brief while he had hesitated, before looking back at her with a curious expression on his face. At first she had taken it to be a look of helplessness that she would have to weed out of his system before he could become an actual weapon of war for them. Hindsight was twenty, twenty of course, and now she realised with a loathing that had surpassed her expectations that he had been looking at her with a view to remembering her face before he killed her. Then he went ahead and took the Argonian's life in single stroke. A practical man then, even if he hated her for it. He had needed to make it appear real, to make sure they felt he was involved. Besides he had probably taken into account the condition he was in, the speed he would need to move at and the probability of his survival. A man who did what needed to be done, as mercifully as possible.

But oh she remembered the aftermath of that. This mortal had fallen to his knees in front of the chapel and she and Harrow had stayed behind to watch over his entrance into the Mythic Dawn. Surely he was praying to the greatness of Mehrunes Dagon, the great and powerful that he was. For an hour he had sat there, head bowed, lips moving constantly. Then out of nowhere as she had walked around to stretch her legs had come the pain. A searing, burning pain that he spread through her lower back and into her stomach, pooling in her intestines and curling around her nerves. Her spine had seemed to stretch and tear apart. It was only now that she understood that he had thrown the dagger he had used to take the life of an innocent and it had impacted on her lower back. Harrow barely managed to turn before a Hailfire spell had struck him in the face and removed most of the flesh from his upper torso. The "hero" had flipped as he passed her, grabbing the magic staff she always carried on her back and raising it just as the guard attacked him. The guards first, and only, spell had missed and the counter spell had hurled his body into the wall, most of his ribs breaking in a sickening crunch and pop as the shards punctured his organs. Their attacker had turned to her and looked at her with such hatred that she had almost recoiled from it. Before he'd gathered the magicka for a Firestorm spell in his hand she almost glimpsed a hint of amber in his shadowed eyes, amber with catlike slits. Then had come black and her awakening here in paradise.

Now as she jumped forward she could see those amber slits again, glinting within the confines of the strange helm he wore. Even as she jumped she could see him move with a speed that belied humanity, whirling as he drew his firebrand sword. Her first spell was unleashed within seconds, but he just leaned to one side and the blast harmlessly missed him. Too late she realised her mistake as he raised one glowing palm to the level of her face. Within it spun the beginnings of a powerful spell she did not recognise, right before he loosed it. Pain happened yet again, and she ground her teeth in anguish and rage at having fallen to his power yet again. But even as light registered on her retinas she let loose as a fierce laugh. Here she would simply be reborn again and again. He could not win. Beside her Raven flashed into existence once more. But things were going wrong. Raven gaze over her shoulder was nothing more than a visage of horror. Around Carac Agaialor the very air seemed to teem with purple light and chaotic messings. Obviously their father had risen to do battle himself, but there was something else here. Ruma flashed to her feet, already drawing her returned staff and Raven behind her summoned his armour once more. Inside they rushed.

Mankar Camaron was rising, his will already evident in his stance and in his powerful aura. But the aura that surrounded his opponent was no mean aura either. It pulsed with both Daerdric and Aedric magicks. Ruma gasped in surprise. Both Daedric and Aedric was unheard of, but this, this man, possessed both. Bursting into a run, the children of Mankar Camaron rushed to aid their father. But they were too late. Eldamil had risen and was advancing, but he was not the threat. In a swift inrushing of air, the Champion summoned. Out of the Daedric magicks came the form of a soldier, a female clad in miniscule armour, equipped with a sword, and axe and a bow and shield. Recognisable instantly was a Dark Seducer of the Shivering Isles, the home of the Prince of Madness, Sheogorath. The Seducer and Eldamil both charged at the returning children, but beyond them the Champion focused on Camaron. Switching from his firebrand to a huge, strangely shaped claymore the man charged and leapt. In that instant, as his bronzed blade was raised and poised in mid swing, the last words she heard in her mortal life flooded back to haunt her.

"Dark Knights exist to do whatever it takes to stop Oblivion and Tamriel merging. I might not like what I have to do, but count on it that I will never let you succeed!"

Then the blade came down.

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And after that Paradise collapsed. What a class story and battle. They killed me five times until I realised that I couldn't use Dawnfang against Camaron. So I switched to my Impure Madness Claymore and it killed him a lot quicker.


	4. New Master

One with Haskill and the new Sheogorath. I love the Isles, the zany, crazy, slightly completely freaking insane Shivering Isles. God bless whoever came up with that, and whatever they were on at the time

* * *

Haskill considered his new master. On the surface the man was nothing like his predecessor, he cared too much for starters, but when a person truly examined the man, they realised, he was no longer man. Not quite anyway. Half and half in a sense, but all of him was power. Jyggalag had been correct, the longer he sat on that throne, the better it fit him. He was growing into his station. At times though, his sanity was truly questioned. The new Master had cried, a Daedric Prince, crying, when he had finally defeated Jyggalag, blubbering some ridiculous nonsense about Sheogorath being the father he'd never had, about how he now had to protect the realm, about how he needed to tell her what he felt. The night that followed had been rent by screams as the power had bonded itself to his mortal frame, accelerating his magical growth and placing him on the highest pedestal of Madgod. Hailed by all the denizens of the realm, the new Sheogorath had taken his throne with pride. And it was all so very normal, so very human, so very sane! Madness required the Madgod to be a warped as the rest of his land and this new creature on the throne was in no way unhinged.

Or so Haskill had thought. But then the little things began to show. Such as the day Haskill entered the throne room to find Sheogorath on the ceiling. He'd explained that in reality, everyone else was upside down, he was the only person walking on normal gravity. Haskill believed him. For one thing, this was his realm, everything was as he made it, so therefore everyone else was upside down. Secondly, there had been a maniacal glint in his eyes which suggested that Haskill had better agree. It seemed that the new master was madness incarnate, and all the unstable power and might that went with it. Perhaps that was the reason for it in the first place. Sheogorath had been visited by Madness and the two had struck a deal. Now they were one and the same. Madness needed to have a host, and the boy proved very worthy of it. When the dancer danced for him he laughed and cheered, or alternatively wept and ranted, all over the most petty things like how the light coloured her hair. Other times the dancer couldn't actually stay in his presence for too long, the leers he gave made her skin crawl. Once or twice literally. The court healer, devoted to her job, was often worried about their new master. Mortal or not, more than once he'd come back from a battle on the brink of death, Sheogorath's Protection kicking in just in time to protect him from dying, but he'd immediately demanded to be healed and gone right back into battle. If he died, their entire world would descend back into the endless misty sea of Oblivion, but he was reckless with both his life and his gifts. Perhaps that was another episode of his madness.

A sudden change in the atmosphere alerted Haskill to the presence of his returned Master. It was as if gravity had turned to oil and was running through the world, a trait common to most Daedric Princes, least of all his Master. The doors melted and Sheogorath walked through, his eyes flickering between blue and amber, a remnant of his human heritage. He was still wearing his Madness armour, but it was covered in blood, organs and viscera. Grinning he strode past all his gaping attendants and sat on his throne. Only the Aureal and Mazken who guarded the throne didn't bat their eyelids.

"My Lord, how was your trip to Nirn."

"MAGNIFICENT!" The booming voice was overlaid in raw power and any non daedric in the room had their eardrums burst. "Sorry. I forgot about that."

Sheogorath, his voice returned to normal, snapped his fingers. Everything was as it was. "Nirn does that to me I'm afraid, I become normal again."

Haskill frowned. "I beg your pardon for bringing this to your attention my Lord, but why are you covered in viscera and entrails?"

As if for the first time, Sheogorath looked down at himself. Then he started sniggering. "I ran into some Zealots on the way here. They didn't accept me as Sheogorath so I made them burst!" The laughter grew louder.

"Capital, sir." The ever loyal and dry Chamberlain stated.

Sheogorath began laughing even harder, to the point where he wasn't able to speak. Several others in the room began to join in.

Suddenly he stopped laughing. "Silence!"

There was a sudden vacuum of sound. "Get out, all of you!"

Within a minute, Haskill and Sheogorath were left alone. Sheogorath slumped. "We have a problem Haskill."

"I made sure that we have enough cheese my Lord."

Invisible fingers clenched around his heart as Sheogorath lifted him into the air on his stare. "Much less serious than the lack of cheese Haskill. We do not want a repeat of that situation."

"Indeed." Haskill managed through the pain. Being what he was did not prevent pain for him.

Abruptly Sheogorath released him and returned to his brooding. "Mehrunes is not a happy camper. Neither is Meridia and she still holds a grudge against me over those Aurorans I killed fighting Umaril. Speaking of whom he's there too. Talk about a pain in the backside. They're all scheming against me Haskill, I can tell, trust me on this one." He sat back up. "On the bright side, I found a new man. Or a mer rather. Glarthir's more paranoid than Sil, he'd make a good Duke of Dementia, what do you think."

Haskill was distracted by the sound of a liver plopping onto the floor. Sheogorath sighed, muttered something incomprehensible and snapped his fingers. The entire ensemble vanished, leaving him dressed in his normal regalia. "Better?"

"Yes, my Lord, now what are we going to do about the other Princes?"

"I've got an idea…."

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So do I.


End file.
